


In This Finite Existence

by blackidyll



Series: Traceability [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a part of Q – his disgruntled ego, he strongly suspects – that still wants to retaliate in some form. Years of self-discipline and the driving force of ambition means that Q has built up near imperturbable fronts, but it rankles to be manhandled, and buried far beneath that is the unease that comes from being disabled so easily, from not having any of his technology on hand. </p><p>The rest of him is already reassessing the situation. Q is not impervious, not his pride, and not to a Double-O suddenly turned solemn enough to make promises he never cared before to keep.   </p><p>His fingers curl into themselves and Q blows out a careful breath, feeling bereft without his phone, a tablet, a keyboard. “Don’t tell me where we’re going.” </p><p>Bond doesn’t. </p><p> </p><p>The journey matters, but so does the destination. On a cold day in December, Bond takes Q on a trip beyond London and MI6's watchful eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Finite Existence

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long while since I posted _Observations_ , and I really do apologize for that. I took a few months away from this series to research and write the 00Q Big Bang fic, then got rather burnt out by it and by real life matters. I've also wanted to write this particular instalment since I began this series, so – a lot of second-guessing and worried hand-wringing went into this fic, haha. I hope it satisfies.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments over the past months. It's always such a joy to see the notifications in my inbox, and they motivate me to continue writing. Thank you very much for that!

His lavender Earl Grey has been steeped at a perfect ninety-seven degrees for three minutes, and his Tube ride lasts an exact twenty-two minutes, transfers inclusive, no delays. The walk from his flat to the station and then towards headquarters is pleasant, the cool December air waking him up entirely, and Q watches the barest hint of colour tinge the pre-dawn sky before stepping out from the cold, tagging in to find the labs blessedly peaceful and the overnight logs surprisingly bereft of emergencies.  

When Bond’s voice filters through the quiet half an hour later, Q almost smiles – his days in Q Branch are never perfect, so of course life would contrive to throw one volatile Double-O into his path this morning.

“Come somewhere with me.”

Contrary to popular belief, that statement isn’t something that is often heard coming from Bond's mouth. Bond's modus operandi is sheer charm and undistilled sensuality, all confident body language and hungry eyes, and the few times he has to lure a lover into his arms with words, well, they’re certainly not couched in such ambiguities. 

Q looks up from his work to make sure Bond is actually speaking to him and not baiting a target on the phone or, alternatively, flirting with one of his staff for further leverage in Q Branch.

Apparently, he is – speaking to Q, that is.

“No.”

“You don't even know where I'm planning to go.”

“Same answer. I have a department to run.”

Bond glances pointedly around the empty lab, slowly enough that he’s clearly conveying _do try harder than that, Quartermaster_ with his gaze. Q smiles, and turns back to his monitor. He isn’t tyrannical enough to insist his staff come in this early on a weekend shift; the specialists will be in their own departments – engineering, weapons room, inventory – and any Q Branch handler actively with an agent at this time would be ensconced in a private comms room.

Q is quite sure Bond knows that.

After a moment of silence, Bond says, voice deadpan, “The rush of the new fiscal year paperwork and budgetary assignments are over, you are finished with whatever program you’ve been holed up in your office with these past two weeks, and the other Double-Os are either off-assignment or with their own handlers—” meaning Tanner has volunteered to work with 004 again “—so you should be able to spare one afternoon.”

“It’s morning,” Q quips, feeling particularly playful at that moment, “and even if I truly had nothing else to do, I do still get paid to sit around in the likely event an agent calls in for backup.”  

“Aren't you at all curious how your team copes when the head of their division is absent? If your second isn’t around to immediately take control?”

Q's mind has the tendency to jump ahead and so he's already considering it – a simulation, where Q as Q Branch's leader and primary cyber-security expert is incapacitated or removed from headquarters, and his underlings have to drive themselves without his guidance. His tech and his programs only perform as well as the people handling them are; how would they hold up against a hacker of Q's calibre working against them?

One year is enough time for some to become complacent under the safety net of Q’s leadership and skills.

He gives his head a little shake to clear it of distractions, and when he looks up Bond's eyes are amused, his smile dark and conspiratory.

The man digs one finger above the knot of his tie, pulling it just the barest half-inch looser.

“ _No_ —” and before Q can say anything else, Bond plucks his glasses right off his face and blocks the punch, then blocks the automatic roundhouse kick Q executes (away from his workstation, _away from his systems)_ , and then wrenches Q off balance before scooping Q right up, slinging him over one shoulder and trapping Q's flailing legs with an arm around his knees.

“You really need to work on your hand-to-hand combat skills,” Q hears over the rush of blood to his head. “No one's going to put a staff in your hands out there.”

“Bond,” Q growls, fighting the disorientation of blurred vision, and Bond is very fit but there is still the sharp jut of bone digging into his diaphragm. He twists abruptly, kicking out as best he can against Bond's hold, but the man just jolts him, throwing him off-balance, and captures his grip anew. 

“I can knock you out,” Bond says conversationally, patting the back of Q's knee in a vaguely sympathetic manner.

That's it – Q's going to fix a sound disabler in Bond's earpiece. Every time the Double-O so much as tries to step outside the line, Q will hit him with a blast of sound intensive enough that it'll knock him out of commission. Q will make sure to tune it for immediate disablement without lasting damage. He’s not an expert in audio technology and Bond has confiscated his phone, tucking it into the same breast pocket as his glasses but he knows electrical engineering and circuitry well enough; the moment Bond drops him off in a car or room or hotel somewhere Q will cannibalize the radio or GPS or TV speakers and then he will simply smile when Bond collapses to the ground.

He jams his elbows into the small of Bond's back. “I can lock down the front gates.”

He can. He's installed biometric sensors at all exits and a few interesting commands he can trigger with particular hand gestures.

Bond hums under his breath, a movement Q feels as a subtle vibration where his chest is pressed up against Bond's shoulders. The man otherwise stays silent, clenching Q's waist tighter as he strides smoothly around a corner.

 _Does he expect me to seriously fight back_? Q wonders, because he isn't a physical match for a Double-O without his favoured weapon in hand, but he can inflict enough damage to his opponent or at least himself to make Bond regret it (especially when Q Branch rises up to give the Double-O complete hell).

“I'll bring myself and my gear back in one piece for my next three missions.”

Q goes still.

He twists again, grabs a fistful of Bond’s hair to pull the man’s head back – it’s a rough gesture, but Q’s hands are gentle somehow, one arm braced against the wings of Bond’s shoulders to hold himself upright, the other tugging just enough that Bond gets the memo and tilts his head back. Q catches his gaze – a single instance of blue – before Bond’s grip tightens, a brief moment’s notice before he drops Q unceremoniously on his feet.

There’s a part of Q – his disgruntled ego, he strongly suspects – that still wants to retaliate in some form. Years of self-discipline and the driving force of ambition means that Q has built up near imperturbable fronts, but it rankles to be manhandled, and buried far beneath that is the unease that comes from being disabled so easily, from not having any of his technology on hand.

The rest of him is already reassessing the situation. Q is not impervious, not his pride, and not to a Double-O suddenly turned solemn enough to make promises he never cared before to keep.  

His fingers curl into themselves and Q blows out a careful breath, feeling bereft without his phone, a tablet, a keyboard. “Don’t tell me where we’re going.”

Bond doesn’t.

When they arrive at the secondary parking bay two levels down, Q knows it’s his last chance to turn back. Instead, he watches Bond skulk along the neat lines of vehicles, keeping his face turned away from the cameras but making no effort to avoid the sightlines either. Bond breaks into his chosen car discreetly – no alarms, no snap of a compromised lock, not even the low glow of the interior lights – and ducks into the driver’s seat, disappearing under the dashboard. A moment later, the headlamps flick on, although Bond keeps the engine off to preserve the element of surprise for now.

Q has a nagging feeling they’re going to blow completely past Security at neck-breaking speeds in a few minutes.  

He lifts his head and stares pointedly at one of the CCTV cameras, sparing a thought for whichever of his underlings that has the misfortune of handling surveillance with Security today, and walks across the parking bay as Bond backs out of the car and shuts the headlamps off, plunging them back into shadowy dimness.

“There.” Quiet amusement is back in Bond’s voice. “Breakout successful.”

Q could glare at him, or he can take stock of himself. He's jacket-less, glasses-less, wallet-less and most importantly, phone-less ( _damn it_ ); on the other hand, a quick touch to his pockets reminds him that that he has five pounds in coins, the receipt from his tea purchase, his utterly pointless flat keys and a fountain pen. Oh, and he's also up one Double-O agent.   

“It's not a breakout when the person in question doesn’t really want to be out.” Q eyes Bond, spinning the fountain pen restlessly between his fingers. “This is a kidnapping.”

“Oh, but you went so willingly.”

Q stabs the man's arm with the end of the pen; it's hardly sharp enough to do much damage and the jolt of electricity is barely half of a conventional taser's, but it's enough of a distraction that Q manages to grab his phone back. Bond, curiously, lets him, although there's an aborted twitch of his body that is partly residual effects of the electric shock and mostly the suppression of an instinctive reaction.

 _Most likely an instinct to break my arm,_ Q's mind supplies him, and while on any other day his smile would be sharp and toothy, today Q just watches Bond from under his eyelashes, considering.

“Don't take my phone again,” he warns Bond, flicking his phone awake, fingers flying over the small screen.

“I thought you didn’t ‘go in’ for things like exploding pens anymore,” Bond says.

“I don’t see any explosions.”

“What are you doing?” Bond's voice is politely neutral, although he eyes the phone – or maybe it’s the taser pen – with marked interest.

“Buying you time. I won’t tamper with my own systems, but I can at least take myself off the Q Branch roster so the next person walking into the labs won’t jump into entirely correct conclusions from the evidence of my abrupt leaving.”

Q flicks a glance up at Bond, then reaches over to pull the passenger door open, seating himself as his phone remotely saves and closes his programs, shuts down and wipes his workstation systems, and locks down the main lab until one of his senior staff comes on shift. “I wouldn’t want Tanner to send any teams or another Double-O after you, kidnapper.”

Bond’s gaze lingers on Q – Q can feel it even without looking up – and then he closes the door on Q, the inside of the car going peaceful and silent before door on the driver’s side opens and the Double-O slides languidly behind the wheel.

“Fascinating,” Bond murmurs, voice so low that Q has to strain to hear it. The car comes to sudden life around them, the engine at rest a subvocal purr vibrating against Q’s skin, and for one wild second Q wonders just what in the world he’s doing.

The dashboard lights reflect eerily off Bond’s eyes as they turn in Q’s direction; he doesn’t say a word, but Q knows that the pause is deliberate, the smallest breath of space left to reconsider.

His phone chirrups at him, a confirmation that it has completed the queue of actions Q left it to execute. Staring straight ahead of him, Q pulls the seatbelt one-handed across his chest. The moment it clicks into place, Bond guns the accelerators, and the car leaps forward in the darkness.  

\----

They’ve only just begun this little excursion of theirs, and James has already learned several interesting facts about Q.

Q is no field agent, but he has no qualms about playing dirty – the little taser pen stunt of his is indication enough, and although he follows a strict code of conduct while in Q Branch and within MI6’s jurisdiction, outside of headquarters he’s prone to improvisation. James suspects that whatever he’s doing on his phone is almost guaranteed to annoy the Home Office if they find out – their route out of London goes by too smoothly and quickly, even during off-peak hours, for Q not to have intervened in some way.

James doesn’t even have to ask Q to cover their tracks – hadn’t planned to ask him at all, in fact. Q wouldn’t alter MI6 records, choosing to leave clear clues about his complicity with James’ plans to avert a commotion, but James knows that if he tries to track their own progress through the city and onto the M1 that he would find absolutely nothing.

Still, old habits are hard to break, and several hours out from London James stops at a small town to switch cars at one of his personal bolt holes – a simple two-room house he had taken mainly for the large attached garage, and because it resides in a neighbourhood so homely and commonplace that few would associate him with it.

He can also easily write off the property now that he’s pulled up at it in a pitch black Jag, fast and powerful and rather conspicuous against the neatly trimmed hedges and pretty spruce trees.   

They hadn’t spoken much on the journey over, but Q looks up now, his phone turned screen down on his knee. “So this is what Double-Os spend their considerable pay on,” he says. “Safe houses.”

The certainty in his voice makes James smile. “MI6 covers all our expenses abroad and our accommodations within London, and beyond those parameters there are only so much fine food, drink and companionship that we can partake of before we get bored. This isn’t our end destination.”

“No, I didn’t think so.”

James watches Q’s expression in the rear-view mirror, can practically see him cataloguing the house, adding the existence of it into the mental file James knows Q has on him. Q has a tendency to chatter when on a line or the phone, dropping absentminded observations or sarcastic retorts especially when his attention is split between his agents and his systems, but he holds his silences better in person—until provoked, that is.

“I assume the entire place is outfitted to appear as a normal home, with full amenities.”

James just tosses the house keys in Q’s direction; Q catches them neatly, and that together with the way he had operated his phone suggest that he doesn’t really need the glasses, although he could be short-sighted. James pats the breast pocket where he’d tucked Q’s glasses – watches Q’s eyes flick to follow the movement – and tilts his head toward the house. “Be my guest. Come over to the garage when you’re done prying around the place.”

Q shoots him a flat look, but with the amount of surveillance Q Branch carries out there’s no way he can deny it, and he lets himself out of the car, not making a sound even when the cold wind rips into him the moment he steps away from the shelter of the car. Instead of making his way to the front door, however, he stops by the garage, finding the hidden panel easily. A few moments later, the garage door disengages itself, rolling back slowly.  

Even from a distance, the pleased smile that flashes across Q’s face is unmistakable – because of course James wouldn’t secure the garage with a simple electronic lock alone, and of course Q would still be able to get past the additional safeguards. He tucks the phone in his pocket and goes back to the front door.

Curiously, James finds himself missing Q’s voice in his ear, the self-assured quip he’d normally make at this point of the proceedings. 

Most of the things James stores in the garage are for their efficacy, but the Aston Martin is an indulgence. It isn’t a classic make like the one he once owned, but it’s fitting enough for this particular trip. It only takes a few minutes to strip the Jag of its MI6 additions – the standard handguns, the dormant communications system neither he nor Q touched, the various kits – and stash them in the Vanquish instead, and when Q comes through the side door into the garage James is already behind the wheel.

“MI6’s cars aren’t conspicuous enough for you?” Q asks, climbing into the passenger seat. James turns away from his study of the fuel gauge and pauses.

Q has a dancer's physique, all long limbs and lean muscles, and he looks rather small in James' topcoat. The arms fit surprisingly well in length, but he has to fold the edges of the coat across his chest, holding it close with one hand. With his hair in utter disarray from the wind and his eyes looking much larger without the confining border of frame and lenses, Q appears much more like a civilian – a graduate student, perhaps – and much less like the rapier-sharp, unruffled Quartermaster of MI6.  

“That's my coat,” James feels obligated to point out.

“How vexing.” Q raises an eyebrow. “But since you stole me out of Q Branch without my jacket or scarf or gloves, I had to make do. This detainee insists that he stay warm and alive or he stops cooperating. Pity, that.”

That tone threatens to draw an answering smirk from James—there’s the confident riposte that he’d missed earlier, the reason why James will never mistake Q for someone more innocuous.

“I wouldn’t want to be on your negative side,” James says. “What else have you pilfered?” 

Q fishes a cable from the coat’s pocket. “Phone charger. Even with enhancements, my phone does not come with infinite battery life.”

“How anticlimactic,” James says dryly, and pulls out onto the driveway as Q plugs in his phone.

“It’s only practical.” Q pulls out a handful of granola bars from the other coat pocket, and drops them into the cup holder before unwrapping one, chewing slowly.

James slants him a sideway stare.

Q finishes the granola bar, twists the foil wrapper into a neat knot, and tucks it away. “Is there a problem?”

“Nothing important,” James says, and reaches under his seat, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. He passes the reconnaissance pack to Q, who accepts it automatically, too used to handling attaché cases and weapons kits. He shoots James a surprised look the moment he recognizes it.   

“This looks more and more unscrupulous the further we go. I hope you don’t expect us to subsist on just field rations and granola for the next undisclosed number of hours.”

“I’ll wine and dine you properly when we’re back in London,” James says, well aware even as he’s saying it that he’s blurring lines again; it’s something he would say to Eve or other field agents when their paths cross when abroad. It’s a flirtation, charming and easy, but he knows Q is capable of reading the layers in that invitation – James when in London and not at headquarters is a man off duty and hence subtly changed, and he’s curious enough about what Q would be like in that same situation to put himself out as bait.

“I don’t come cheap,” Q says, almost absentmindedly, and then his eyebrows jump like he’s only just caught himself. “I thought you said that you weren’t testing me.”

“I said I wasn’t sure if ‘test’ is the right word,” James corrects. “It’s not.”

Q’s stare is no less piercing even without the panes of glass sharpening his eyes, but he lets the subject drop, flicking his gaze away. “I would like to remind you – _again_ – not to misuse Q-branch gear,” he says instead. “This is not standard issue and you’re not scheduled for a mission, so where—never mind, I can find out myself.”

He unzips the reconnaissance pack, running his fingers along the lining for the serial code, then picks up his phone. The cable restricts him from turning the phone’s screen away and he glances up quickly– James feigns inattention – before pulling up a barebones version of Q-net and executing a series of searches in shorthand code tapped out with one hand.

James allows himself to look over when Q lets out a quiet noise of triumph, before losing patience and unplugging the phone altogether to go at it with both hands. “I’m retroactively checking out this pack on your behalf,” Q says, too used to narrating his actions over a line. “I rather raise a flag now than to risk a delay when another agent tries to procure it and it isn’t there.”

“You’re very attentive to your equipment,” James says, although he’s looking at Q’s phone, a slim and sleek model he’d no doubt put together himself. It hadn’t made another sound after the first little chirrup back at headquarters, but James had caught a shadow of a smile on Q’s face once or twice, even though the quartermaster kept the screen carefully averted from James the entire time.

“Someone has to.”

“I know you can track me through my phone—” which is why James brought a burner phone today “—how many people are capable of tracking you through yours?”

Q looks up, catches James’ gaze, calm.

“A few; I have to leave a backdoor for my team. But I suppose I’ll reduce that number to zero. Quit button, same technology as your earpieces.”

And just like that, he deliberately turns his phone off, connecting it back to the cable before placing it carefully to one side.  

Quite a number of things pass through James’ mind at this point – that he shouldn’t be surprised at all, because this is the man who preferred to have their first volatile meeting in an public location, choosing to meet James on neutral ground rather than forcing James to come to him; that he should have expected this, because even after the security breach on the Q-net systems – possibly one of the worst things that can happen to someone like Q – he’d quickly recovered, leaping immediately to assist James; and mainly that he should have bailed Q out of MI6 months ago if James had known it was going to be this intriguing.

He doesn’t betray any of those thoughts; feeding his curiosity is a nice side effect of bringing Q along with him today, but it’s not the main reason.  

“How ever will you entertain yourself now?”

Q’s eyes are a little wide now, like he’s suddenly realized that he’s completely cut himself off from his systems – no information, no connections, no backup. “That’s a question,” he murmurs. “Perhaps I’ll simply enjoy the scenery.”

James chuckles quietly, looking out at the highway.

“You could try the radio, if you’d like.”

“I can handle myself, Bond,” Q says, sounding peevish now, and James graciously grants him the last word, concentrating instead on putting the Vanquish through her paces; it isn’t often he has the chance to take out his personal cars.

When James next looks over, Q’s head is tucked to the side, facing the window, the steady rise and fall of his breathing telling James that Q is fast asleep.

\---

Falling asleep against warm leather seats proves to be considerably more comfortable than nodding off on top of his keyboard or at his workstation, and Q finds himself content to stare out the window when he awakens, the steady hum of the engine somehow lulling the intrinsic need to remain connected to a low level itch at the back of his mind.

He leaves his phone where it is, and watches the flat grasslands roll by.

It’s the change in the engine’s rumble that pulls Q from his contemplation of a particularly troublesome code; Bond eases the car another notch slower and tips a glance in his direction, acknowledging Q’s sudden attention.

“Almost there,” is all Bond says, and Q straightens in his seat, looking at the land before them with an eye for detail now, focused. He doesn’t bother replying; silence doesn’t bother either of them, Bond just as likely to banter as he is to go utterly quiet over the line during a mission.

His missing glasses hadn’t mattered much when he was staring out at a wide vista of the moors, but as they approach a dilapidated gate framed by two stag statues, standing tall and regal in their isolated vigil, Q finds himself unconsciously raising his hand to adjust glasses that are not there, trying to see better. It’s the first sign he’s seen of civilization in the past hour, and he leans towards the window, squinting to make out the weathered stone plaque.

Bond doesn’t slow down. The engine revs as they shift off the last vestiges of asphalt onto a long faded country road, and it’s misty out, the late afternoon sun turned murky by the fog. The conditions are enough to make Q question his perception; he could be mistaken.

He thinks the plaque said—

The estate is vast, but the ruins are visible from a distance, reduced to blackened stone and mortar by the inferno that consumed it. There is no form of surveillance out here in the middle of almost nowhere and if Bond filed an account of that final confrontation it is inaccessible even to Q, but there is the extraction team’s report. Wide swaths of it is redacted, but the initial scene had been noted in detail: a fire that destroyed almost everything of the lodge itself, a number of bodies strewn across the frozen soil, the only structure left standing a chapel some distance away—likely the one Bond currently pulls the car up next to. 

Q forces the words through the sudden uneasiness in his chest. “This is Skyfall.”

It’s not a question. Bond stares out the windscreen, and kills the engines. “Yes, it is.” 

The sudden silence rings loud in Q’s ears. “Why did you bring me?”

Bond’s face is impassive when he meets Q’s gaze. “Because this wouldn’t work on a wire line.”

He exits the car quickly, looking out towards the lodge’s ruins the entire time, giving Q a moment to himself. Q folds the topcoat tighter around him, chilled by the heavy cold air that rushed in when Bond had opened the door, and is quietly, abruptly, furious with himself.

The time of the year, Bond’s odd solemnity when he asked Q to come with him, the knowledge that the former M’s real identity was disclosed to a selected few after her death, most of whom attended the discreet memorial for one Olivia Mansfield and the fact that Q knows that Bond deliberately chose not go – the pieces are all there, and Q had been too comfortable with the status quo to make the connection.

It is this blindsidedness, whether from his own arrogance or by complacency, that makes Q drop his guard. The last time that happened, Silva had exploited it to devastating effect.

And then equally abruptly, that anger is—not gone, but shelved away, replaced with a steady single-mindedness tinged with mild concern. Double-Os do not often give in to sentimentality. There are a dozen possible reasons for why Bond has taken him here today, in secrecy and in reasonable haste.  Q’s mind pushes forward the likeliest worst case scenarios but he’s learned patience waiting on a line, dependent on his agents to give him the information he needs to help them; he slips his phone into his pocket and opens the car door.

It’s much colder this far north and even more so after the warmth of the car, a heavy stillness that makes him move carefully, trying not to make a sound. Q knows London like the back of his hand, sees the whole wide world through a million mechanical eyes, a reflected cyber-world formed of data points and binary code. But he has never quite experienced this, the wild world in its visceral, physical form miles away from humanity or the smallest spark of technology, and Q feels startlingly out of place, thrown out of equilibrium.

The sense of displacement only grows worse when he glances at Bond, who stands eerily still, almost blending into the monochrome surroundings in his dark coat, seemingly unbothered by the cold. His expression is bland, and he holds out a hand when Q stops by his side, clasping the glasses carefully to avoid smudging the lenses.

“For clarity,” Bond says.

Q slips on them on, the world coming back into sharper focus. Taking them away doesn’t slow Q down very much, but handing them back is a gesture on Bond’s part; Q just doesn’t know what that gesture _means_.

“After I asked you to lay down a trail of breadcrumbs, we broke off communications to prevent anyone else from tracing my route until you lured them in.” 

MI6 headquarters had been in an uproar that afternoon. Security was on high alert, the agents leashed but restless, incensed by the attack on the head of their agency. Q roused Q Branch and sent his personnel to aid all other sections, their inventories open for use at his senior staff’s discretion. Then he had locked down the main observation lab to hide his activities even from his own people, working in silence until Tanner appeared at the doors, determined, rapping resolutely on the glass until Q gave up and let him in.

They monitored the signals long after Mallory left, Silva appearing to take the bait before his traces disappeared off the map. Q had bit hard at the inside of his cheek in wordless ire, forcing himself to wait, to conserve his energy and Q Branch’s resources for the inevitable aftermath.

The remoteness of the Scottish highlands worked against all of them—just as Bond intended.

“Yes,” Q says.

“We took our stance in the lodge. Vastly outnumbered and outgunned, the goal was to take as many men out without forcing a direct confrontation. In that goal we succeeded. They might have destroyed the lodge, but we took down their helicopter—grounded them.”

Q follows Bond’s gaze, tries to imagine the scene as it happened, but the situation is too far removed from anything he’s experienced for him to distinguish the damage done by explosives versus what a helicopter crash must appear like; it looks all the same to him.

“How did you escape?”

“A secret passage. Old structures are choked full of them.” Bond lifts a hand, shades his eyes from the scant sunlight. “The fire was quite destructive, but there would still be remnants. You must have sent quite the clean-up team.” 

Q flicks a glance at Bond, then looks swiftly away. “No. M – Mallory – did. He solicited the Home Office’s help.”

There had been a phone call to MI6’s public inquiry number from a civilian landline, giving Bond’s identification code, and Q had seized the line, patching it through Q Branch in an instant, tracing the call to a small town two miles outside Skyfall’s vast grounds even as Bond said, voice utterly void of emotion, that both Silva and M were dead and he needed an extraction team. And that’s when Mallory swooped in, sealing the entire case up tight, and with both Bond and Silva’s transports – and the communication systems within them – completely destroyed Q couldn’t get a foot in either.

Swallowing a sigh, Q forces himself to relax. “A situation like this, occurring within the country, would certainly fall under MI5’s jurisdiction. As head of the ISC at that time, Mallory had contacts the rest of us would hesitate to utilize.”

Bond’s eyes are dark, shadowed like the clouds shrouding the sky. “That does sound like him. I had wondered; another Double-O came for me.”

Q steals another look at the ruins; it looks quite thoroughly destroyed, but then again they had thought Silva quite thoroughly subdued when they captured him. “Did they miss something?” he asks, thinking— _a black box containing particularly malicious software, for example_.

Bond flashes him a fox-like smile, strangely startling for how out of place it should seem. “No, Q. Nothing like that.” He turns, his tread silent on barren ground. “No point standing around in the cold,” he says over one shoulder, and heads towards the chapel, pushing the doors apart just enough so he, and Q behind him, can duck in.

The chapel doesn’t feel any warmer than it is outside, and Q flips up the collar of the topcoat as he blinks, trying to adjust to the dimness. Bond moves swiftly amongst the pews, and Q doesn’t even try to match his pace; he’d rather not trip headlong over loose stone or the broken down wood furnishings.

“You’re one of the few who was directly involved,” Bond says, voice echoing. “You met Silva, and you lent me your aid until the very end.”

So it is sentimentality after all. The chapel may be broken-down, but it’s an apt location, shadowy and dark, a private space for private reminiscences.

“Of course,” Q murmurs brushing one finger against the back of a bench, leaving a clean streak in the dust. “You’re one of my agents, and I’m the one who let Silva escape, after all.”

There is a moment when Bond just stops, everything about him going still. When he moves again, it’s in an odd circuit, as if walking around an unseen obstacle.

Goosebumps prickle on Q’s skin and it’s not entirely because of the cold; there’s something oppressive in the air now, a revelation lurking in the space between them, and Q registers the exact moment that Bond notices Q noticing, when Bond’s eyes sharpen, all pretences falling away—

“Bond, what—”

— _Bond has always been good at taking the shot._

The Double-O gestures at the space before him. “Silva and M died right here, in this chapel.”

\---

Q’s pupils are blown wide, shock edging the corners of his eyes, and even in the cool dimness of the chapel the sudden paleness of his skin is worrying. James had placed himself a careful distance away – under these circumstances, even a civilian, much less a Double-O on alert, might be mistaken for a threat – and leaves the path back out of the chapel clear; the flight instinct is often more dominant than the fight instinct, and for good reason.

There’s a vast difference between witnessing an act of violence over a line or on a camera and standing at the actual scene, to actually taste what the perpetrator – or more damningly, the victim – would have felt when it happened.

But then Q gasps in a breath, eyelids fluttering wildly, and when his gaze steadies there’s awareness back in them, the shock pushed firmly away. To his credit, he does not look away from the spot in front of James. 

James glances away from Q to study the disturbances on the ground, darkened speckles of blood staining the stone, timeworn: barely any evidence that M had died there, and Silva not three paces away.

“When I told you not to tell me where we were going, I didn’t think it would be this place.”

Q does an admirable job keeping his voice steady, in control, and that’s a hallmark of a good leader. He’s pulled himself firmly together now, canting his body to let the shadows obscure his expression, his hands tucked deep within the topcoat’s pockets to hide the fact that he’s clutching hard onto his phone. Q really is quite a natural at this; it isn’t his fault James is so very good at reading other people.

“You didn’t do this,” James says, remembering – a knife thrown with great precision, saving M just long enough for her to die with dignity.

Q’s eyes dart towards him, holds. “Pardon?”

It’s very much like Q to fall back into the security of formality and familiar routine when rattled. He’s shaken enough that some of his confusion seeps through, but James has given him a distraction now, another problem to focus on. James picks his words with care, lets neither affability nor accusation fall into them.

“You made a mistake. You let Silva into Q Branch’s systems, and he escaped to do this.” James gestures at the ground between them; Q doesn’t look this time, staring at him unblinkingly. “You’re a perfectionist, and perfectionists take failure personally. You’re fixated on Silva. Or rather, you’re fixated at your failure at his hands.”

Q stays quiet.

“Tell me what you've been working on for the past two weeks isn't some variation of the program you created to guard Q-net after you reverse-engineered Silva's hacking code.”

Surprise flashes across Q’s face, before smoothing away into thoughtfulness. “I can't do that.” Q says, and then adds, softly, “Of course you needed just one glance. I should have realized that you’d recognize it.”

“Your program is quite memorable.”

James had first seen the graphical view of the software in Q Branch’s image diagnostics room, Q unworriedly handing over the tablet as a distraction, and had on a whim peered at the code behind it. He didn't understand even a quarter of what the codes represented, but there were distinct marks within the coding, a unique and elegant flair that is entirely Q’s—without the need for anonymity the quartermaster poured all of his skill into the program.

When he swung by Q’s office to hand over a particularly sensitive hard drive from his last mission, James caught sight of Q’s main screen, just a few short minutes while Q cracked into the drive there and then, the lines and lines of code sprawling over his multiple monitors. All of the technology Q sends out with the Double-Os is tightly written and efficient, but clean, impersonal. James didn’t need the visual – an intricate representation of Q-net and all related MI6 systems – to identify the program.

“Even months later, I remember it,” James continues. “And realized that even months later you still blame yourself.”

Q is quick – his expression goes blank with comprehension – and sharp-tongued, mercilessly honest with his agents and especially himself.

“Don’t tell me that I’m not at least partially responsible for this.” Q’s voice is low, but his eyes are dark, sparking with emotion. “I’m not given to false modesty. I’ve _made_ myself important enough to make a difference; I wouldn’t take up the Quartermaster position otherwise. I was supposed to be the human firewall, the final safeguard that stands between the world and MI6’s secrets, and Silva played me like a cheap violin.”

He glares at James for a long moment before seeming to remember who he’s talking to. He steps forward, drawing one hand along the back of the pews, as if he needed to ground himself with a physical touch, something solid and predictable beneath his fingers. Dust motes swirl in his wake, barely visible in the dark. 

“I don’t offer empty platitudes either,” Q finally says, folding himself down to sit on his heels, the topcoat falling open around his crouched form. “We all made mistakes, even M herself. The quantity of errors does not diminish my own failure in any way.”

Casually, without changing his expression or even the cadence of his words, James says, “Do you think I should blame myself for—”

“No,” Q cuts in, his tone fierce. “No, if you truly don’t, I'm _glad_.”

Something dark and deadly in James’ chest settles down, not banished but quietened.

Q breathes out, a barely audible sound despite the hush of the chapel. He stares at the ground, as though he might puzzle out the sequence of Silva and M’s deaths if he stared long enough. “I'm glad,” he says again, softly. “And I accept that I can’t quite do the same. I don’t know why you’ve brought me here, but I’m not looking for absolution.”

James can’t help the smile that flashes across his face – he smoothens out his expression immediately, but there’s no denying that it happened. It’s yet another characteristic of an agent too long out in the field; James does not take lives indiscriminately, but finding the dark humour amidst it all—that’s second nature now.

“No, I didn’t think so.”

“Then why—”

“Closure.”

Q’s head snaps up, and James narrows his eyes, falling smoothly into a crouch of his own before he’s thought it through consciously. Q’s gaze follows him down; now that they’re on level ground he tucks his chin in, head tilted in that familiar gesture to meet James’ eyes.

“What,” Q says carefully, “do you mean?”

“You’re not a field agent.”

“I thought that was rather obvious.”

“People like you are once removed from the action. You see the consequences, you experience the emotions, but your hands do not feel the recoil of a kill shot or the sharp edge of a perfectly thrown knife or the warm tackiness of clotting blood—it’s harder, that way, to convince yourself that there is absolutely nothing more you could have done to prevent this.”

The look Q throws him is terribly familiar, but not on that face, not within those eyes: a little lost and not quite sure what to do with himself, his confident persona cracking slightly at the edges. He's still graceful when he brushes his fingertips against the stone floor, however; partly for balance, but mostly, James thinks, because Q is unafraid to confront his demons.

Two people died there. Most would rather leave the building all together.

“I keep thinking of ways I could have prevented Silva from hacking us,” Q finally says.

James gives a single nod, silently acknowledging both the admission and everything else Q leaves unsaid.

“You went through a crisis before you became Quartermaster. When Silva escaped, you lost control for a moment – swearing in front of your team isn’t very professional – but you snapped back into focus immediately. That’s not something you learn to do from reading an agent’s field manual.”

He expects mostly for Q to deflect that line of enquiry or to ignore it completely; both would still tell James a little bit more about Q’s history, the events that shaped him. Instead, Q simply says, “Yes.”

“How did you deal with the aftermath of that situation?”

Q lets out a little laugh. “I joined the British Secret Intelligence Service.”

James doesn’t need to think about his response. “A good choice.”

Q’s eyebrows jump. “Really.”

“You’d be bored anywhere else.” Only an agency of MI6’s scale could offer enough challenges for a man with Q’s skills and intellect—that, or a cyberterrorist organization. “And you’re amongst people who understand.”

“Is this what this is, then - a counselling session?” It's a hint of his usual sharp sniping, even though Q's voice is mild.

James flashes him a dark smile. “You and I feel the same way towards psychiatrists, so no. When we met for the second time in front of that ship painting you like so much, you threw me a line, a teeter back to MI6. I don't doubt that guilt was a motivator for your actions—” together with no small amount of cryptic amusement, because Q operates at his best when confronted with a conundrum to crack, “—but I've learned many things about you these past months. You're sharp, and intelligent, and give entirely too much to your agents. You would have intervened even if Silva had never crossed Q Branch's threshold.” 

“I don't—” Q begins, and James cuts him off.

“You were viciously happy to know that I don't blame myself for M's death. Don't you think that I would want the same for you?

Q just stares at him for a long, long moment, thoughts obviously racing behind the air of stillness around him. And then he ducks his head, breaking off eye contact. His filters are in place today, because he catches himself before he blurts out whatever's laying on the tip of his tongue, finally settling for a simple, “ _Oh_.”

Obliviousness normally annoys James, but he understands this particular form of blindsidedness well. _An elite, in a one-of-a-kind position_ ; Eve had summed it up well. Brilliant, terrifyingly competent and entirely too used to being the one others rely on, it would be difficult to turn that view around, for Q to realize that that support goes both ways.

“That's how you agents deal with it, then,” Q says. “You fail. You accept it. And then you move onto the next mission.”

James shrugs one shoulder. “More or less. Everyone has their own ways of coping. And you point out what you perceive to be my bad habits all the time. Fair's fair.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite give in to reckless deeds the way you deal with your… situation.”

“No. But in the shortened lifespan that comes with our jobs, one year is a long time to be fixated on one misstep, on one man.”

There's an odd look on Q's face, eyebrows slightly furrowed, pensive and perplexed all at once. But then he nods, a short and decisive move, and the subtle tension in James' body eases, a notch down from high alert. Q isn't a mission, but some instinct in James is determined to treat him with the importance of one, and he's long learned to trust what his subconscious tells him.

James might be capable of staking out a location for hours on end, crouched unmoving while waiting for the most opportune moment, but the cold makes some of his oldest scars ache and no matter how good he is at staff-fighting Q isn't a field agent, trained for constant physical strain; sitting back on his heels can't be comfortable. Rising smoothly to his feet, discreetly rolling stiffen muscles, James holds out a hand out to Q.

Q doesn't expect the gesture, head tilting further in curiosity, but he lets James pull him upright anyway, dust and grit between their hands. James watches him closely, but Q finds his feet, only slightly wobbly.

“Take it slow,” James says before he can remind himself not to.

Q just gives him a small smile, however, rubbing at his hands to clear away the worst of the dirt before brushing at the coat, dusting it off. He studies the chapel now, not sweeping it systematically like an agent would but gaze moving from point to point, focusing on whatever jumps out at him. His eyes keep flicking back to the blood-speckled stone, however, until he glances once at James. Then he looks firmly away, drifting towards the chapel's entrance, as if to physically distance himself from the scene.

“I can tell you,” James says. “If you'd like.”

Q startles, turning to meet James’ gaze. It's in Q's nature to what to know, knowledge still his most valued weapon, and it wouldn't be terribly difficult for James to tell him, nothing at all like the debriefing he’d had with a gamut of ISC personnel staring at him, Mallory at the forefront.

But after a moment, Q shakes his head.

“No,” he says slowly. “Putting aside that that is classified information, I don’t think it’s conducive to the goal of moving on if you told me what happened here.”

There is a part of James that is selfishly glad at Q’s choice—MI6’s agents are private by nature and the Double-Os even more so. The rest of him is just quietly pleased, Q's answer an indication that he's trying not to dwell on the situation.

“As you say, Quartermaster,” he murmurs.

Scant evening light falls through the grimy windows, casting faint shadows at his feet, and when Q tilts his head again it hides his expression.

“Bond.” Q’s voice is clear but quiet, lacking the authoritative tone of a handler at work, and the single word, James’ name, echoes in the empty corners of the chapel. “Thank you for bringing me with you today.”

There’s something off about Q’s body language, an oddity in the way he phrases his words, and James’ instincts stirs to calm, watchful alertness. “Why do you say that?”

Q takes a single step forward, just enough for James to see his face, and his eyes are clear, resolute.

As colleagues, it’s easy to maintain a professional distance. As a field agent and his handler, it is both wise and necessary to the job to respect each other’s boundaries, to know that there are secrets that they both must keep to complete the mission. But as whatever they are now – well, they’ve never needed the courtesy of eye contact or the niceties of social etiquette. Communicating remotely over a line, through voices and camera lenses, is normal. Sparring and idle banter have _become_ normal. What they’re doing now is not at all normal and it’s still comfortable, because none of their interactions since that first conversation in front of _The Fighting Temeraire_ have been predictable.

But Q says evenly, without a hint of doubt in his voice, “It’s closure for you too,” and it’s nothing James expects—the surprise rocking through him is a surprise in and of itself.

Some of that surprise must filter through, because Q nods to himself once. “I told you before that I will always be able to track you. I’m glad I didn’t have to, this time. I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

He turns, James’ topcoat flaring around him for an instant before he’s out the door, leaving James in the shadows of the chapel, where ghosts and memories alike lurk.

\---

When James leaves the chapel, Q is leaning against the Vanquish, topcoat buttoned all the way up and collar flipped to keep out the cold, the faint glimmer of starlight reflecting off his glasses.

“The light pollution in London is such that we never see sights quite like these when in the city,” Q says, head still tipped towards the sky. “It’s easy to see how the sailors of old could navigate the world with just the constellations to guide their way.” 

There’s a faint thread of wistfulness in Q’s voice, a reminder that Q’s fear of flying grounds him, making it unlikely that he’s ever seen the pattern of stars off the Pacific Islands or from Africa’s desert dunes, that he basks instead in the stark glow of the technological world.

“I should tell you, however,” Q continues, “that I don’t have a license, and I have no intentions of learning how to drive in the middle of the night, no matter how starrily lit the road is before me.”

James pulls on his gloves, taking the time to settle the leather over his skin. “A nine-hour drive that’s just a drive is hardly taxing. Another few hours won’t wear me down. It’s a rather nice respite, actually.”

It’s hard to read the quartermaster’s body language through the bulk of the topcoat, but there’s something in the way Q dips his head before meeting James’ gaze that suggests relief. “I trust you know your limits better than I would.”

James strides forward, breath condensing in the air, and brushes his fingers against the Vanquish’s hood – warm, even though the leather. Q must have had the engine and the heat on at some point, at least until night fell and the stars came out.

Q’s hands come out of his pocket, flicking the face of his phone upward before remembering, with a frown, that he’d turned it completely off. He pulls back his coat sleeve instead, trying to read the face of his watch in the starlight.

“Is this the longest you’ve gone without being connected?”

Q pauses. “The longest since I became Quartermaster, yes. Perhaps since I entered MI6.”

James nods once at the phone. “Go ahead.”

He can almost sense Q’s narrow-eyed look on his skin. “Q Branch can do without me, Bond. I hardly need check on them every twenty-four hours.”

James shrugs. “Staying connected is instinctive for you. The date, your disappearance, together with mine; they’ll put it together eventually. We’re done here now. It doesn’t matter if they can track us.”

“I think you underestimate the mystique that surrounds you Double-Os,” Q says, fingers tapping lightly against his phone, a subconscious habit, then going still, when he comes to a decision. “They might speculate, but I can make it so they’ll never know for sure.” 

“Are you—hindering your own surveillance, Q?”

“We track you on duty, and we keep tabs on you when you return; it’s both necessary and anticipated. But MI6 does not need to know every detail of every movement you make while off-duty, on your personal time.” Q grimaces. “In fact, please spare us when you can; the rumour mill might be amusing but it can be quite tiresome when it affects productivity.”

“Perhaps.” It’s a response to both the comment and Q’s offer of diverted surveillance, and yet Q makes no move to turn on his phone, tucking it back into his pocket instead.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” James asks, when Q doesn’t say or do anything else.

“Nothing concrete yet.” Q looks in James’ direction, and James must have betrayed _something_ , because Q’s tone changes. “No, no side projects. I… I suppose I’ll hand off the Silva program to the secondary communications team. The core program has been completed for a long time now. The team can do better with it than all the tweaks I keep adding.” He blows out a quiet sigh, then tips his head to the side, contemplative. “And you?”

James likes beautiful, exquisite things, but he values the abstract by far. He's attracted to intelligence, sharp wit and daringness, to cunning and all the courage in the world to back it up. And he's terribly susceptible to anyone who has seen the darker sides of who he is and doesn't flinch back.

Q combines the best of all these and takes it one step further. It has been a very long time since anyone’s voluntarily followed him down the proverbial rabbit hole, and yet here Q is, willingly standing out in the cold in the shadow of place associated with his failings, and he’s strong enough to both move beyond his personal inhibitions and to continue extending his support to James.

He chuckles at himself, both in wry amusement and chastisement, because of all the possible outcomes he’d predicted when he planned this trip James had not expected this, an awareness of Q beyond his role as a colleague, an associate, an anchor.  

“I suppose I might have a quiet day in, for a change,” he says.

“Back to London, then.”

London. There’s a lilt in Q’s voice, a quiet contentment at the thought of returning to his home territory and base of power. The city doesn’t hold the same lure for James; he never stays for long, both by choice and by necessity, the Double-Os much more effective striking out at their enemies before they have a chance to breach the United Kingdom’s borders. But no agent lasts in MI6 without the fierce protectiveness and territorial instinct, and it’s reassuring to know that he _can_ pause, to rest safe in the knowledge that their country is watched over by people he trusts for the short time before he goes back on the hunt.

Having further opportunity to figure out the intricate puzzle that is Q, the same way Q continues to piece him together, is just a bonus.

“Yes.” James lets his voice drop low. “Back to London.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written entirely to the official instrumental/non-vocal version of "Skyfall." Adele has a wonderful voice, but I really love the way the different instruments come together. Go have a [listen.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCj7d5laqqI)


End file.
